


St. Chara and the Risk.

by chibiotaku4life



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiotaku4life/pseuds/chibiotaku4life
Summary: The church. It's why monsters were sealed underground. It's why Chara ran away.It's why Frisk ran away. It's why monsters will be freed.It is the cause of pain and suffering. It is the end of pain and suffering.In these pages, though many shall perish, all may be freed.





	1. "I love you despite the warning signs."

**Author's Note:**

> this work is not complete. obviously. ugh help

It had been four months since it had happened. Four months since she had conceived. Four months since she knew that it was the beginning of the end, because he was a church official and if she told _she’d_ be punished yet more harshly. And she was starting to show.

She’d managed to hide the morning sickness and the missed periods - after all, that time of month was considered by the church to be demonic, and was rarely discussed, even between mothers and daughters. Not that Chara would want to talk to her mother about anything personal.

“Chara Milligan,” her mother hollered up the stairs. “What is taking you so long? We can’t be late to the service - it’s your first Communion!”

Ah, yes, the first Communion. She had just turned sixteen only days before, and was taking her place, in the church at least, as a practicing member. She would become a full member at eighteen. She paled. Communion required her to drink from the Font of Sacrament, and pregnant women weren’t supposed to do so. It was said that unbaptized children could carry demons within them, and so the Font of Sacrament would reveal that nature in a defect that could not be removed. That was why children waited to be baptized at the age of 13, when the unholiest urges would first strike. Any earlier or later and they could be overcome by a devil.

“Coming,” she called back, picking out one of her larger dresses and flats.

They walked to church on the cobblestone path. Her parents greeted friends, but Chara kept her head down, trying not to be noticed. No one would do anything before church, but she wasn’t exactly popular. The other kids all knew there was something different about her - though what it was wasn’t clear. After all, she acted much like all the other children; although she seemed to have more compassion than most.

They walked through the wide oak doors of the church, engraved with the seven souls of the Saints. At the front of the church the familiar mural of the Saints beating back the winged, horned, and otherwise horrifying monsters of hell back into the depths greeted her. She sought out her namesake, bravely fighting at the front of the pack, his sword glowing red with determination.

 _Could monsters really be that awful compared to humans?_ she thought blasphemously. After all, the church was _so_ often right. Anyone not a member of the church was a heathen and should burn, according to the doctrine of the Holy Scroll. That went double for the black- and brown- skinned descendants of demons and for the unholy whores of the demon king Asgore. How often had Chara heard tales of grim bloodshed and death, masquerading as glory paid to the Allfather? How many public executions had she witnessed of discovered practitioners of other religions, mostly from across the tracks, some of whom had been her only friends?

Alia, the old widow who had once belonged to a powerful family, who had spent her little savings to buy butterscotch candies for the poor children of the slums. She was always insisted on sharing these with Chara as well, though when she turned away Chara always dropped her meager allowance into her bag. She had burned for defying church doctrine, head turned to the sky in defiance, the smell of burning flesh seared into Chara’s memory.

Thomas, the young boy with whom she had roughhoused down by the river, until her parents had found out and charged his whole family with sacrilege. He had watched his parents hung and been taken, sobbing, to be an altar boy.

Katherine, the sweet, gentle young girl who had always followed her with wide, sparkling eyes, gasping at her fine dresses and laughing as she played with Chara’s springy curls. She had been caught in the Great Room of the Chapel, which was forbidden to the lower families, and had innocently walked to her death by ritual sacrifice in the Font of Justice, which always ran nearly black with blood. It was by far the most horrifying of the Seven Fonts.

Of course, the church executed criminals, too. People from across the tracks who trespassed, stole, even killed. People from this side who killed. But never the guilty clergy, whose hands were permanently stained with violence and worse.

The Fonts stood in the front of the church. In the middle was the Font of Sacrament, to the left, the Fonts of Justice, Integrity, and Bravery, to the right, Patience, Perseverance, and Kindness. Each had a role in the church ceremonies, though some less gruesome than others.

Chara took a seat at the front with her parents, her nervousness growing. As much as what had been done to her had been an act of hate, she loved the life growing within her.

Notes rang from the organ, a song to silence the congregation. Gradually the murmuring died down, and the bishop stepped to his pulpit, raising his arms to the sky.

“The glory of the God Almighty, to his holy servants and children - the saints - to the One Mother, we gather today in celebration and observance of. We call upon his mightiness to purge us of sin and cast us as vessels to purify this dark and treacherous world.

“Thou art the father, greatest in battle,

Thou art our shepherd, tending us cattle.

Thou art our mother, the milk from your breast,

Which runs through our veins, by which we are blessed.

Thou art the children, lights in our darkness,

Saints from your loins sent down to guide us.

Thou art the holiness of our work in your name,

In your divinity lies our naked shame.”

Chara shuddered at those last words. The verse had never sat well with her, but now it seemed to be both more literal and looming over her. A tightness stole out from her chest to her extremities, constricting her breath and flushing her skin with uneven patches of warmth.

“The service today is dedicated to the Tale of the Great War, and what it means today. Thousands of years ago we vanquished the demons of hell and sealed them back into their dark pit. Today we are…

The minister spoke on in a religious fervor, his voice and expressions passionate, and seemingly, compelling, for the congregation leaned forward to catch his now-booming voice, or fanned themselves helplessly, though the air was pleasantly cool. Chara rocked slightly in her seat pulling at the lace on the neck of her dress. She felt a drip of sweat run down under her arm and shifted to rub it away. Her mother frowned down at her and she stilled, waiting for communion to come.

Finally the bishop called out, “Friends, it is time for the holy communion. Today we have three new adults joining our ranks. Chara, Toria, Samuel, please come forward.”

Chara walked with the two others with leaden legs to the front of the church. She felt nausea rise to her throat as she eyed the fonts.

“Before you drink of the font of sacrament, you must purify yourself by drinking from one of the Lesser fonts.” She had forgotten. She was to pick her poison, perhaps quite literally.

And Chara was to go first. She stepped up so she stood in front of the Font of Sacrament. Her eyes immediately passed over the Fonts of Bravery and Justice, to the left and right of it. None of them were told what properties the waters of these fonts had, denied from viewing communion until their sixteenth birthday. She only knew she did not want to drink the blood of innocents, whether from execution or from the weapons of our soldiers.

She looked to her left. Integrity was there, followed by kindness, which was always empty. The church said they didn’t know why that was. Chara had a feeling she did.

She looked to her right. Perseverance overflowed with clean water, and as she watched, another drip ran down and out of the basin.

She accepted the chalice from the bishop. “Choose the one you need most,” he whispered to her, his soft, wrinkled hands encircling mine, then let go.

The one she needed the most? That would be bravery. The water ran clear today, not even the pinkest tinge. She hesitated, then stepped forward, catching the water in her chalice.

Chara’s hands shook as she lifted it to her lips, the water threatening to slosh over. She drank deeply, then stepped back in horror as the water rose from the basin and formed a thin screen in front of her.

She saw herself, holding her child, hair damp and unkempt and dark bags under her eyes, stark on her pale face. She was looking down into the face of her child with half-glassed but loving eyes.

She found it impossible to swallow as a weight settled into her chest, an ache growing from the center of her heart. Then she gasped, as dark, indistinct figures wrested her baby from her. The Chara in the vision cried out, struggling towards them but easily restrained. At last, she sunk back into the pillows, the glassiness of my eyes now haunted with a cloudy darkness.

Chara struggled for breath as the water poured back around the edges of the font. There were murmurs from the congregation, which grew into a loud roar with sharp peaks of yelling. She stood numbly, unmoving. The bishop waved his arms for silence, and the congregation settled down.

“Chara, I would like to speak with you and your family after the service,” he said gravely, but his tone carried an edge of steel.

Toria stepped forward, seeming shaken, but her head held defiantly high. Dipping  her chalice in the font of integrity, she stared at Chara and took a long draught. Nothing seemed to happen, but the bishop stepped forward.

“Toria, have you committed any crimes against the church in your memory.”

Her eyes widened as her lips trembled, and words spilled over them as water over a peak.

“I have doubted, father,” she spoke, turning red. “I have lusted, and coveted many things.”

“Very well, my child,” he said. “You shall commit to four hours of prayer as penance. You are welcome amongst us.” The crowd murmured the final phrase in response, which Chara noticed had been conspicuously absent for her.

Next Samuel stepped forward. He didn’t look at either of them, but quickly dipped his chalice in the Font of Justice, which ran purple with the blood of vanquished enemies washed from the weapons of their soldiers. Drinking deeply, he stared fixedly out above everyone’s heads. There was silence, then the bishop stepped forward.

“That you are still alive, my child, means that you have committed no grievous sin. You are welcome amongst us.”

You are welcome amongst us,” the crowd murmured in response. Samuel’s face was steady as he walked back to his pew, but as he sat, Chara thought his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly into a smirk.

As the service drew to a close, dread flowed like molten lead from Chara’s throat to her stomach. Though she wished she could run, her feet seemed inextricably bound to the floor, as if they were already deadened from running all her life.

They stood, and recited the closing chant.

Patience, hold me ready, waiting, drawn back like a loaded bow,

Perserverance keep me steady, keen and accurate arrow.

Integrity, hold me highly, so that I might strike true,

Justice, aim we wisely, so that I may serve you.

Bravery, propel me forward, into heart of waiting foe,

Kindness, at Knowing of the Word, ready to staunch the flow.

For those who accept Chara’s Sacrament,

themselves should all be heavensent.

As if sensing Chara’s desire to flee, her mother’s hand closed around her wrist in an iron grip. He heart throbbed in her chest. Today would be her Judgment Day.

 


	2. "The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, these chapter titles come from mincing mockingbird's a guide to troubled birds

“The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math.”

“She will have to be taken for reconditioning.”

“Keep her there. She is no daughter of ours.”

“Very well.”

Chara was not sure how she was still standing. Her body was numb, disconnected. Her worst fears were coming true.

“But - what about the child?” she croaked desperately.

“The child is an abomination against humanity,” the bishop said coldly, and tears began to pour from Chara’s eyes, hot against her already warm cheeks. “However, they shall be given to a member of the clergy, in the hopes that your sin may be purged from them and they might be reclaimed in the name of the Lord and Lady.”

“No!” Chara burst out,throwing her arms to the sides. “You can’t!”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “ _ You  _ still have to atone for your sins. Tell me, who was the other progenitor?”

Chara squeezed her eyes shut. If she told the truth, she would be publicly executed for blasphemy. If she lied, some other poor soul would be punished for what had been done to her.

“Chara,” her mother barked, and her father’s vice-grip on her shoulder tightened painfully.

“The Font of Integrity?” she heard him say, his tone hard.

“Not yet,” the priest said. Chara frantically searched her mind for someone she could lay the blame on, someone from this side of the river. But there was no one.

“Nathan Prescott,” she finally blurted out, her heart aching. He was her friend from the other side of the river; who knew what they would do to him?

“I see,” the bishop said, bowing his head in acknowledgment. Chara’s cheeks burned with guilt.

“Come, my child,” he said, and the pressure on her shoulder suddenly released. She staggered forward, only to have the bishop’s hand land steadily and heavily on her other shoulder, the one farther from him. He guided her firmly through a door.

Chara was taken in a cart to an abbey outside the city. Now, as before, there was no one to soothe her from her nightmares and relieve her fears in the dark of the night, but even in the daylight she was kept isolated, only seeing the abbess, who brought her food, water, and instructions, and who never spoke.

And the nightmares did come. How she struggled in the dark, crying out for mercy, his heavy, sweaty hand finding her mouth and stifling her screams and half her breath. Her broken sobs as he held her down and forced his way into her. Terror grasped her every night, clutching her chest so she couldn’t even scream and she woke in silent tears. It was then she sat, gasping her growing belly desperately, and willed herself on for the sake of her child.

All day she studied the Word. She would have to interpret it, and yet somehow she began to see that the Word was not what the church had made it out to be, though she could never say so in her essays. In each one, she committed heresy against her mind and heart.

History and the Word seemed to contradict. She made a request for a tome of history, and upon receiving it, began to read.

“Long ago,” it read, “Two races ruled over Earth: Humans, and Monsters. Humans were gentle and good servants of the Lord and Lady, but monsters were wicked, committing atrocities against innocent humans and sacrilege against the Divine.

“Finally, the humans had had enough. They took up their swords and their spears in holy retribution against the demons. The war raged long and bitter, and the rivers ran red with blood. Though monsters were weak, they were many, and the skies cried for humanity before the war was through.

“It was then that Chara, champion of the people, took up his divinity and channeled it into a miracle, drawing on the Brothers of Virtue. Together they drove the monsters back into hell, sealing them there for all eternity. The humans were victorious, and monsters were no more.”

Chara frowned. Something about the narrative rang hollow. If Chara were so holy, where the words of mercy he had so painstakingly scribed in the Word?

The days blurred into months, the sky turning overhead as light flowed in through her prison window. It grew cold, bitterly so. Chara could not recall such a wicked winter in her memory. Always she shivered, bound in many blankets and furs.

Her contractions started the night of the winter solstice. On the longest, darkest night, the precipice before the world turned back towards sun and spring, she labored. Pain wracked her intensely, making it hard to breathe, her cries most often the only sound. Murmured instructions came from the midwife every so often, as she felt herself pulling apart to bring the new life into the world.

Finally, exhausted, her hair wet and stringy around her damp face, Chara heard a small cry.

“What is it?” she croaked.

The midwife looked to the door, where a soldier stood guard, waiting.

“A girl,” she whispered. She laid her hand on Chara’s gently, and tears sprang to Chara’s eyes. It was the first kindness she had known in a long time. “I know they will not accept it, but I will remember her name, should you decide to give her one.”

“F-” Chara almost swore as spots darkened her vision, like the sheets around her stained heavily with blood. “Risk,” she breathed. To love her had been her biggest risk, though she could not help but do so. 

“Frisk,” the midwife nodded, smiling gently though her eyes were drawn. Chara sank back, too tired to correct her. A faint memory swam in the dark just beyond the edge of her conscious mind, of some deeper reason for the name, but as she reached for it, she started to fade. The midwife stood, and the last image she saw was the midwife bending over her with alarm in her eyes.

Disjointed images flickered like distorted candlelight. A doctor firmly pushing on her body. A priest praying at her bedside, asking first to give her life so that she might continue to serve and repent, and at last to forgive her for her sins. And through it, him, looming over her, sending pain through her body with his rough hands. Then the midwife - the midwife?

“Chara,” she said in a throaty whisper, and Chara raised her head, feeling sore and tired, but with a measure of strength returned to her. She was convalescent, her life force no longer draining away.

“Chara,” the voice insisted. Chara turned to look at her, pushing herself up.

“You must leave, Chara,” the midwife said, and now Chara recognized her as Bridget, from across the river. “I have heard you let slip the truth of your condition in your fevered dreams. You must leave, for now that you are well enough, they will not stay your execution.”

Bridget helped her to her feet, where she stood, legs trembling. The midwife foisted furs upon her, quickly guiding her shaking limbs through them. Then, lightly grabbing her arm, she pulled her out the door. They slipped through the sleeping abbey, out to the gates, where snow as white as a doctor’s coat, as cold as bone, glimmered softly even in the darkness. Snow fell thick, and even as Bridget unlocked the gate, the wind picked up and the snow started to turn half to ice, wet and stinging against her bare face.

“Go,” the midwife insisted.

“Where?” Chara asked desperately, struggling to hold herself upright.

“Mt. Ebott,” Bridget said.

“But legend tells those who seek the mountain never return!” Chara gasped.

Bridget looked her in the eyes then, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Folk tales hold differently,” she said kindly. “They say those of corrupted heart will find judgment, but those who are pure will find sanctuary. I would stake my chances that, as the church stifles these rumors, perhaps this mountain will judge you differently than they. Now go.” She pushed Chara out of the gate, following like a shadow and locking it behind her. “That way.”

Chara stumbled in the direction of her outstretched hand, tripping and slogging through the heavy snow. The wind picked up as she entered the forest, whipping the trees into a frenzy and howling a wild and desperate song. Though the mountain was a ways away, she knew she could not succumb. The winter would strive to execute her as surely as the church.

In the distance, she heard muffled shouting. She continued to struggle almost blindly through the sleet, her extremities numb. She was glad of the weather, however; it would set her and her pursuers on even ground, and hide her flight through the trees.

Her strength failing, she arrived at the base of the mountain. The sounds of pursuit were nearer now, and she broke into a faltering run, scrambling and slipping over the now-somewhat hardened snow.

The shouts grew closer. She could hear individual voices now, and the clang and scrape of metal on metal. They had to be right behind her, invisible in the snow that limited her visibility to a mere five feet around. Her heart hammered, dread for once making her feet lighter.

Finally, she stepped down only to find the darkness had grown, and yet there was no ice underfoot. Perhaps she was in a cave? She stepped forward recklessly, her feet leaden, barely lifting. Her foot caught on a root, and she tumbled forward into space.

Her limbs flew up as she landed with a crack. She lay stunned. As she tried to move, pain surged through her broken body, white and hard like ice. It was as though she could feel each of her veins pulsing with blood, spilling out into the caverns of her body. Fear overtook her.

She managed to get one arm underneath herself, but as she tried to push herself to her feet, her back and side split in agonized response. She let out a scream, her cry wavering as her voice broke. How could she still be alive?

Darkness settled in, stealing sensation slowly away as it swept like poison through her veins. At last, a feeling of ready resignation crept into her heart. If she was to die, she would die. At least her child was safe. Frisk was safe.

A voice drifted towards her like a cloud. She was annoyed. It disturbed the peaceful floating sensation she was feeling, reminding her of a truth that she wanted to remain unknown.

“Hey, are you alright?” the voice came again, not so static-ridden this time.

She groaned as some of the feeling came rushing back into her, and the cold and pain along with it.

“Oh my gosh,” the voice said. Chara felt herself being raised up by small, strong arms, one of her own arms draped across a pair of slim shoulders. 

The stranger helped her walk, one of her legs dragging uselessly behind her. They did most of the work, supporting and carrying her. Finally they reached a small, tidy house with an open rectangle carved out of the stone for a door.

A white blur stepped from the house.

“My child?” it asked, and Chara’s eyes focused at the familiar words. The white blur emerging from the doorway took the form of a ten-foot-tall goat demon, with red-glinting eyes.

_ Monsters.  _ Looking down, Chara saw furry white hands. She shoved herself away in fear, falling on her side. Everything went black. 


	3. "The ability to remain sober and gracious is, indeed, a form of mild insanity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this work is nearly finished but I think I'm going to continue with weekly updates in case I need to edit stuff for continuity. I have a sequel planned, but I don't know when I'm going to be able to work on it because I've had some health issues come up. Thanks for understanding!

“The ability to remain sober and gracious is, indeed, a form of mild insanity.”

Chara bolted upright, panting and shaking. Had everything been a dream?

She took in the small room where she had awoken. Purple bedsheets were pulled to hospital corners at the ends, though they were rumpled now near her. There was a wardrobe, and a box of old toys.

As Chara looked around, the door cracked open, and the goat demon she had seen before entered slowly. She eyed it warily, but realized she was at its mercy.

“How are you, my child?” it - no, she - asked. The demon had a distinctly feminine voice. Chara still shuddered.

“Oh, I do not have to call you that if it makes you uncomfortable,” the demon quickly said. “I am sorry.”

Chara stared. “No, it is alright…,” she said slowly. “You are a monster, right?”

“Yes,” the demon said simply. “I am Toriel, queen of monsters.”

“But…you are not, eating me, or torturing me, or some such thing?”

“Heavens, no, child!” Toriel gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

“The church,” Chara mumbled sourly, looking down at her lap “Because they’re  _ so  _ often right.” She looked up at Toriel. “It’s just, where I come from, monster is a - a colloquialism for a terrible person. Actual monsters were supposed to be terrible demons, sealed in hell long ago.”

“Ah,” Toriel sighed heavily. “History is written by the victors. Shall I tell you of the battle, long ago?”

“Alright,” Chara said, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

“Long ago, two races ruled over earth: monsters, and humans,” she began. “They lived in peace and prosperity for many long and golden years. However, humans feared death so. From fear sprang jealousy, growing in the hearts of humans. Though monsters are not strong, our lifespans are long, and some among us may be immortal should we not reproduce. Furthermore, in their ignorance, they misconstrued our souls to contain sin. A dark sect grew among humans, the Brotherhood of Mages.

“One day, war broke out between the two races. Monsters suffered many losses, and dust lay thick on the battlefield. You see, when a monster dies, they turn to dust. After a particularly long battle, the humans were again victorious. The pale white spectres, covered in dust, advanced upon us, driving us to the base of this mountain.

“It was then Chara came to us. He offered to end the dusting and bloodshed, to seal us away and keep us safe. The king and I agreed to take his offer, though we saw as well as he that we would be consigning ourselves to a prison that could become eternal. He and seven mages who had taken names of virtue in pursuit of their ideals sealed us underground. Here we remain to this day, protected by a barrier which will reject the unworthy unto death. However, monsters cannot pass themselves through the barrier. We are trapped.”

Chara stared, wide-eyed. This was definitely not the history she had read.

“Tori,” a deep voice rumbled, as the door cracked open again. A larger demon - monster - stood, taking up the whole doorway, with crimson eyes and large, curling horns spiraling beside his face.

Chara fought back the urge to laugh as hysteria stole through her. How was any of this possible?

“Oh, you are awake,” the larger monster rumbled. “How wonderful.” He beamed.

At this Chara did start to laugh. Sudden and uncontrollable, her sides started to hurt from the quick, barking laughter as tears ran down her face.

“Asgore,” she vaguely heard Toriel say as she put her head in her hands, trying desperately to reclaim control over her breathing. “Perhaps you should leave?”

A small, familiar voice then spoke, breaking through the fog that surrounded her mind.

“It’s okay,” it said, and Chara looked up to see a smaller goat monster standing in front of Asgore. “I am Asriel. This is my dad, the king. His name is Asgore. You’ve met Toriel, my mom, already. What is your name?” He spoke slowly and clearly, looking directly at her.

“Um, Chara,” Chara hiccuped. “I’m named for St. Chara - er… um, the humans have a different view of him....” she trailed off.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chara.” Asriel smiled, and Chara felt the tension inside her relax just slightly. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Chara stayed in that room for days, eating butterscotch pie and talking only with the three goat monsters. Though her body seemed to have been healed, her mind was still reeling with everything she had seen and heard.

Finally, on her fifth day, she left the small room, padding from the room in the striped sweater and the pants Bridget had given her.

“Ah, you are up,” Asgore said as she padded out of the room barefoot, looking up from where he sat talking to Toriel.

“What were you talking about?” Chara asked, trying to ground her unsteady mind.

“We were discussing the crowding of Home,” Toriel said. “That is what we call our land here. We were considering expanding into the unexplored regions of the Underground.”

“Oh,” Chara said, unable to think of a response. She clutched her arms.

“Chara,” Asriel said, coming into the room. “How are you?”

“I am well, thanks,” she replied, still not looking at them.

“Would you like to see Home?” he said gently.

Chara nodded, and Toriel stood, walking over to her. She gently took Chara’s hands in hers.

“Be careful, my child,” she said tenderly, and Chara fought back tears. She engulfed her in a hug, then stepped back. Asriel joined her, and they left the small house.

Chara was astonished by the sheer variety of monsters. There were monsters that looked like strange deer with sideways mouths, small, frog-like monsters, monsters that seemed to be fish with full bodies, monsters that were a cross between a fish and a horse - the endless stream left Chara gawking. Asriel finally led her to a balcony overlooking the city.

“My parents really like you,” he said idly. “We’ve been talking - I told them I’ve always wanted a sister.” 

Chara smiled, though not without mixed emotions. These monsters had saved her life, and she really did care for them. They were kind to her. The idea of a happy family, though, was not a concept within her grasp of experience.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he said, staring out at the horizon. “After all, you’ve only just met us.”

He picked the petals off of a purple flower. “If you don’t mind me asking, though, why did you come here? The barrier has not let a human through in my memory.”

Chara looked down. The memories of her lost child were too near. “How old are you?” she asked, deflecting the question.

“Thirty-five,” he answered, drawing a sideways glance from Chara. “Though, for all intents and purposes, I am yet a teenager. But you haven’t answered my question.”

Chara drew her arms in tight, avoiding his gaze. Finally she said, “The church rejected me as the barrier would, deeming me unworthy. Among other things that the church did, that is the reason I have come.”

She was aware of Asriel’s stare on her. Finally she saw him smirk out of the corner of her eye and punch her lightly in the arm. “You talk like my parents,” he said, grinning a sharp-toothed grin.

Chara couldn’t help but smile in response. It was true, she talked like someone in the upper classes. She  _ was  _ from the upper classes. Her grin faded and she looked back out to the horizon, her mind blank.

“Come on,” Asriel said at last. “Mom and dad have been talking about moving for some time now. Let’s go see what they’ve decided.”

Within days, the preparations were finalized. They were planning on moving out into the vast Underground, because there was simply no more room in Home.

The day they were to leave, Chara stood with Toriel, Asgore, and Asriel - the Dreemurrs, she had learned, was their surname. Fitting, she thought, for a family so pure. The door to the rest of the Underground lay behind, a crowd of monsters before them.

“Today, we will find a new homeland,” Toriel boomed, and the monsters cheered, then quieted as Toriel raised a hand.

“I ask that you all please be careful. We may indeed find many dangers along the way. Protect your own, and do not falter. We go now!”

The gathered monsters roared, and the Dreemurrs turned and pushed open the door.

An expanse of snowy woods greeted their eyes, and Chara felt a shiver of deja vu crawl over her back. They stepped out into the snow, and began their journey.

They passed though the cavern full of snow, where some monsters stayed. The snow gradually faded to a damp marsh full of waterfalls and rain which dropped off to a seemingly endless abyss on one side. Eventually steam began to rise from the water, and glassy black crags rose, until they followed narrow pathways above surging magma. Eventually, the passed through an area of grey stone, at the end of which lay a whiteness which seemed somehow to stretch into the distance as blackness pulsed through it.

“We have reached the barrier,” Asgore called out to the remaining monsters. Many had broken off along the way. “We shall go no further.” 

Chara resisted the urge to sit on the hard stone, which at this moment looked quite comfortable. She stood as the king and queen gave orders, sweeping their arms to point in one direction or another. Eventually, a temporary camp had been set up, with plans to begin building in the morning.

Chara and the Dreemurrs all assisted with the building. As Chara broke and lifted stone, she became strong and lean. She also grew close with the Dreemurrs, the mischievous Asriel especially. They laughed as they replaced a monster’s sandwich with a whoopie cushion, and ran hollering and whooping from a furious fish monster after bombarding them with fish puns.

In a matter of months, a citadel sprang up, and a palace was built at the very threshold of the barrier. The monsters were thriving, and life was good.

Chara walked through the market one day, eyeing various wares. A Vegetoid sold monster food, while a Woshua sold scented soaps. A lizard-looking monster sold various items, many familiar to Chara, that she suspected had come from the dump. A young, eager looking bunny monster stood next to a cart with a sign advertising “Nice Cream”.

The Dreemurrs had given her some pocket change, and as she strode, royal robes flapping around her ankles, she looked for some echo flowers. Asgore was an avid gardener, and Chara liked to join him, gently and carefully pruning away the dead leaves to nurture the plants into growing. It took her mind away from the feelings that still plagued her from all those months ago, when Frisk had been conceived. Secondarily, Asriel had had an idea for an amazing prank with the echo flowers, but was at home sick. Fire kept shooting from his nostrils when he sneezed, singeing his fur.

Not paying attention to where she was going, Chara walked straight into someone, who let out an “Oof,” and dropped an armload of heavy tomes on her foot.

“Ouch, she barked, hopping on one foot and grabbing her toe.

“Oh, your highness, I am sorry,” the monster said, reaching a hand - a skeletal hand - out to her. “I can heal you, if you need.”

“No, thank you,” Chara said, rubbing her foot ruefully as she stopped hopping and looked up at the skeleton. “I am sorry, the fault is mine. I was not watching where I was going.”

“It is no problem,” the skeleton said, sticking out a hand, his cheeks glowing purple. Was he blushing? “I am Wing Dings Gaster. It is, uh, nice to meet you.”


	4. "God can't help you now."

 “God can’t help you now.”

He was definitely blushing.

“Chara,” Chara said, shaking his hand. She recognized that he was about her age, though she would not have been able to tell when she first fell. He was tall and slender, wearing a purple turtleneck and a pair of square-rimmed glasses.

“I have to go the library - to the library,” he said quickly, obviously flustered. Chara held down a smile, lips twitching.

“Here, let me help,” Chara said, stooping to pick up the scattered books.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to,” he said, but Chara had already gathered the heavy tomes in her arms.

“I can carry some, at least,” he protested.

“Sorry,” Chara teased. “As the princess, I order you to let me carry them.”

“But -”

“Butts are for sitting,” Chara quipped. She snuck a glance at the skeleton, whose whole face was bright purple.

She carried the volumes to the library, Wing in tow. Setting them down, she took a look at the top one.

“Advanced Particle Physics,” she said, frowning, brows knitting together. “What’s that?”

Gaster straightened instantly, his face stretching into a grin. He launched into a long-winded explanation that was mostly incomprehensible.

At Chara’s blank face, his grin faltered. “I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense,” he said quietly.

“Maybe try again, but this time, use English?” Chara said, grinning lazily.

“But - I was,” Gaster insisted, missing the point.

“Besides,” Chara said, her cheeks starting to burn. “I think it’s cute.”

Gaster blushed deep purple.

“Anyway,” Chara said loudly, making several monsters glare in her direction. Her own blush deepened, and she spoke more quietly. “Why were you reading those books? Are you a scientist?” In her world, scientist had been a gentleman’s pastime, and though he spoke like someone of high class, he did not act like it.

He raised his head proudly. “I am the royal scientist,” he proclaimed, earning himself several stares. “I’m working on a project I call the Core, which will provide electricity to the whole underground.”

“Electricity?” Chara asked.

“Let me show you,” he responded. “May I?”

She hesitated, then took his proffered hand.

There was a sensation as though the universe was whirling around a point in her core, and her vision was obscured for a split second. When it stopped, she was in a lab. She laughed as an exhilarated rush passed through her chest.

Wing watched her, looking pleased. “It is always amazing, the first time,” he said.

Chara grinned at him, and he ducked his head, rummaging in a drawer. He took out a contraption that looked like a clear bulb, a box, and a series of strings. The strings had metal clamps on the end, and as he touched a red string to the box, the bulb flared with light.

Chara leaned in closer. “But - wait, does the box store magic?”

“The box stores  _ electricity _ ,” Wing corrected her. “It is not magic. It is negatively-charged subatomic particles flowing along a wire and through a filament to create heat and light.”

Chara fixed him with a stare, and he let out a short, helpless laugh. “Think of it as energy produced by objects that works to create an effect.”

“Ah,” Chara said, understanding dawning within her. “Perhaps I can get a tutor in science so I can better understand.”

“That would be great,” Wing said smiling shyly.

“Hey Wingnut,” another skeleton said, walking into the room. This one wore a yellow sundress, and strolled casually in while taking a messy bit of a hotcat.

“Hey, PuceLuce,” he replied, grinning. “Chara, this is Lucida. She’s an intern here.”

“Nice to meet you,” Chara said, shaking her hand. 

“See if you can find us,” Lucida suddenly shrieked, pulling Chara forward into a teleportation.

They ended up in Waterfall, Chara herself standing under the cavern’s namesake and Lucida just to the side. Lucida laughed as Chara stepped out, shook herself off, and then whooped from the residual spell. She smiled easily at Lucida, then grew serious.

“What is it?” Lucida asked.

“It’s just -” Chara struggled to find the words to describe the disjointed feeling she had. “This is normal, is it not? At least, this is what normal is supposed to be. My life was never like this, before. I am telling you this, which I never would have done, but I  _ trust  _ you, and,” she stopped, overwhelmed. Conflicted emotions rushed through her.

“Frisk will never get to experience this,” she said simply. “Not in the world I come from.”

“Frisk?” Lucida said gently, putting a hand on the back of her upper arm.

“Frisk was - is my child,” Chara said, not-quite-looking at her over her shoulder. Then she did look at her. “Don’t tell Wing. It is not a story I wish to tell.”

“Ok,” Lucida said, rubbing her arm. “Let’s go to Grillby’s. Maybe you’ll feel better after some soul food.” They teleported away.

“How did you find us so fast?” Lucida complained, when Gaster popped in moments later. Grillby frowned and pointed again at the sign which read, “Please use the door; no teleporting.”

“How did I pick up the readings on a human soul in the underground so quickly? Indeed.” They laughed.

Later that day, they lounged against the barrier.

“Why am I still kept here?” Chara asked idly, tapping the back of her hand to the barrier. Cool morning twilight filtered in through the barrier, a slight golden glow.

“We do not know,” Wing said, frowning and scratching his temple. He adjusted his glasses. “The original hope for the Core was that it might generate enough power for us to seek our freedom. Unfortunately, though it generates both magical energy and mundane electricity, it lacks the essential element that grants sentience to souls.”

“Ugh, speak English,” Asriel groaned, and Lucida giggled.

“Why do monsters want to escape the underground?” Chara asked, ignoring him. She drew her knees up, hugging them to her chest and settling her chin upon them. “The surface isn’t that great.”

“It is monsterkind’s dearest ambition to reach the surface, one day,” Gaster said quietly. “Do you not miss it? The sun and the stars, heavens turning above you? The wind drifting clouds across an empty sky, sweetening the free air?”

Chara swallowed, the words evoking a deep longing within her. Unable to settle with the strange feeling, she buried it under thoughts of the past.

“I do not miss humankind,” she retorted. “Humans are cruel to their own, and crueler still to those they see as different. They would slaughter you as soon as look at you.”

“Not all humans are bad,” Asriel put in, resting a hand on her knee. “There’s you.”

Chara scowled, emotions using her chest as a battleground.

Weeks later, Chara shifted in one of the library’s more comfortable armchairs. She looked up and over at Gaster, who was rapidly scribbling on a sheet of paper, balancing a book precariously on his knees. He looked up, and the ridge of his eye shifting up, similar to an eyebrow being raised. Chara smiled and her eyes fluttered down shyly, then back up. She could hear Asriel and Lucida whispering in heated debate to the left and behind her.

Gaster jerked his head subtly to the side, then raised both of his eye ridges. Chara twisted her mouth, as if considering, then slowly reached his hand across the interim space to meet his.

Chara laughed joyfully as the world stopped swirling. They stood on a high precipice overlooking the Underground. Chara could see New Home, Hotlands, a dark patch, and in the far distance, a white glimmer she supposed was the Snowdin Woods. She let out a breath as the overwhelming sight made her insides go still.

“Wing,” she sighed. “This is wonderful. I have not felt so content in many months.”

“I am glad you like it,” he said, smiling an uneven smile, and looking at her soulfully. “Chara,” he said slowly. “I really am fond of you.”

His cheeks were lilac, but his hands were steady as he gently turned her to him and put the other hand gently on the warm skin of her face. Her heart pulsed, thundering in her chest like the beat of a war drum. Flustered, she brushed a lock of hair from her face.

“I care for you too, Wing,” she said. “I mean, I know that is no secret to you, but I thought I should say it, and -”

She was cut off abruptly as the hand on her arm slid down to meet her hand, and his face met hers. She was surprised, not that his bone was malleable, as she had seen evidence of that before, but that it was warm, and soft.

He kissed her deeply, leaving her breathless and unsteady. She clutched his neck with one arm as the hand that was on her face fluidly found the small of her back. He lowered her down, releasing her hand and putting his next to her shoulder, his knees next to her. He leaned over her, flushed.

“Chara,” he murmured, and she dizzily took in a deep breath. A feeling started to expand within her, like the free and wild sensation of running just to run, straining to pull the ground underneath one’s feet, to fly.

In front of her, a blurry, glowing red object began to take shape. In appearance like the papers released into the air like swarms of butterflies on St. Chara’s Day, it was both new and intimately familiar to her.

“Wing, what is that?” Chara gasped as he ran his fingers though her hair. Another one of the objects began to take form, white, and upside-down in proportion to hers.

“Your soul,” he breathed. “Trying to Soul-mate.”

The red image flickered as a warm, dry unease slid over her face.

“We do not have to,” Wing said quickly, his own soul flickering in response. “I could no more force a Soul-mating than pass through the barrier. To do so would be to gain LOVE.”

“No,” Chara said, “It is alright.” Maybe it was his gentle hesitancy, or the fact that his hands were conspicuously free of perspiration. Though she knew somehow that this was in the most basic of ways an equivalent act to that she had been subjected to, this was consensual. It was not the same.

Chara arched her back as their souls met and merged. Tears swept her eyes as indescribable feeling swelled though her, filling her to the brim. Every part of her rushed with tingling sensation, exhilarating.  She Knew Wing, intimately, as the essence of his being rushed through the deepest parts of her.

Finally their souls came away from one another. Before they faded, Chara saw that his soul was stained pink, and hers was paler, though she thought nothing of it.

“I love you, Chara,” Wing murmured.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, into the now-dark cave. Sleepily, her awareness drifted off, and she was only vaguely aware of being carried by strong arms and a loping gait that rocked her like a gentle river.

The next morning, Chara felt shaky, slightly-yet-treacherously weak, as if she were just beginning to come down with influenza.

She made her way to the library, where shyly, blushing, she met Gaster and entwined her fingers with his.

“Where did you guys go last night?” Asriel asked, leaning against the building with his hands in his shorts pockets.

“You guys weren’t doing anything inappropriate, were you?” Lucida teased.

Wing looked down at Chara, his gaze deep. Inwardly, she pleaded for him not to reveal what they had done. Then he turned back to them.

“I took her to visit Arial in the ruins,” he said, gliding smoothly over the subject.

“Ooh, your little sister?” Lucida gushed, alleviating Chara’s confusion and momentary panic. “How is she?”

“She is well,” Wing replied, giving Chara’s hand a quick squeeze. “What say we go to the Echo Flower grove today?”

“But we’ve already been there a million times,” Asriel said, sounding bored.

“I haven’t,” Chara cut in. She sneezed, rubbing her nose shakily with her free hand. Wing looked at her with concern, but she smiled, and he shrugged.

“Fine,” Asriel said, standing but still slouching. Lucida lightly held her hand out, palm down, and Asriel put his on top. They disappeared, and the familiar sensation of teleportation overcame Chara.

When it stopped, they were in Waterfall. Here the walls were close, the paths through the water narrow and damp. Though the rest of the underground was lit by strange illumination that waxed and waned as the days and nights, here it was eternally dim, some rooms even falling routinely into darkness.

“Here we are,” Asriel said.

Chara jumped as Asriel’s voice repeated the phrase behind her. Lucida and Asriel burst out laughing, and Wing chuckled.

He put a hand between her shoulder blades and with the slightest pressure turned her around. A flower, luminescent blue, repeated the phrase again as she turned to it.

She giggled. “Greetings,” she said, and the flower copied her.

“I am Chara,” she said.

“I am Chara,” the flower repeated.

“No,  _ I  _ am Chara, she said in mock-sternness, raising her voice. Wing’s eye ridges bunched together.

“Greetings,” she shouted, flinging her arms out wide.

“Chara,” Wing said insistently, as the echo flower repeated it, then another. A cacophony grew around them. “Don’t - look out!”

He shoved her aside, and as she fell to the ground, the breath was knocked out of her. There was a loud crack, and a tinkling, shattering sound.

“Oh, so the stars _are_ - hollow crystals,” she heard Wing say in a halting, strained voice.

She sat up, a hand pressed to her chest.

“Oh no,” she whispered. Wing lay prone, one arm stretched out longer then the other, bent one over his head, amidst shattered glowing blue crystal. His bone had shallow gouges carved from them haphazardly, and hairline fractures ran along his shoulders and back.

“You  _ never  _ shout near Echo Flowers,” Asriel accused in an angry whisper.

“I didn’t know,” Chara pleaded. “Wing, are you-”

In a frightened tone, Lucida whimpered, “I’ll go get help.”


	5. “This was a topsy-turvy world full of anguish, shame, and self-torment.”

 

“This was a topsy-turvy world full of anguish, shame, and self-torment.”

“Asriel, can you not heal him,” Chara asked, wringing her hands.

“No,” he barked, crossing his arms. There was a defensive edge to his voice, overlaying fear. Tears began to leak from his eyes. “You know I’m no good at healing  _ or  _ teleportation.

Wing’s breathing was ragged.

“Oh, Wing,” Chara said, her hand hovering over him, too afraid to touch him.

“I am - alright,” he managed, raising his head a few inches off the muddy ground. His face was a sickly lavender.

“I am so sorry. I wish I could do something,” Chara said. “Without magic, I am just - helpless.”

“It is - alright,” Wing said, then let out a cry, drawing in a series of quick, sharp breaths.

Her focus tunneling, Chara only noticed the skeleton when she knelt beside Wing.

“Wing,” she said. “It is alright, my son. Get the queen,” she hissed to Lucida, who was hovering anxiously. Placing her hands on Wing’s shoulder, red energy began to flow from her hands into his body. Though his wounds remained the same, his breathing eased.

“I am so sorry,” Chara said through a throat that was painfully pinched in a vise, both to Wing and his mother.

“It is not your fault, child,” a deep, gravelly male voice said behind her. “Garamond,” he introduced. “My wife, Aster.”

He sank to his knees next to his son, flashing her a compassionate glance, then laying his fingers gingerly as snowflakes on Wing’s wrist. No glow appeared, and Chara was distracted enough by this that her distraught emotions stilled slightly and she shot Garamond a confused glance.

“I am as helpless as you are,” he shrugged, worry plain on his face.

The queen strode into view, lifting her skirts as she hurried over the clinging marsh-grass. Falling heavily to her knees, she put her hands on his injuries and sent a heavy flow of green magic coursing through him, so all his bones started to glow.

Sitting up, Wing took a deep breath. The others all let out shaky, relieved ones.

“Oh man, you almost were a duster,” Asriel breathed.

“Hey, one may die at any time,” Wing said, a smile spreading across his face. “I almost dust-did.”

Groans resounded from the whole group, and Chara threw her arms around Wing. He easily caught her with one arm.

“Sh,” he whispered. “It is alright.”

Later that day, they sat in the Dreemurr’s kitchen while Asgore made them all cups of strong tea.

“So, Aster Gaster?” Chara asked, grinning.

“What?” Wing asked, obviously confused.

“Your surname,” she prompted.

“Oh,” Wing said, realization dawning in his eyes. “No, monster names work a bit differently. We each have a given name and a family name, and most skeletons choose to go by their given names. The family name is a mix of the parent’s names; hence Gaster, Asriel, etcetera.”

“Then what about the Dreemurrs?”

“They are boss monsters,” Wing explained, then amended, “You know this. They carry a lineage name. Once there were many such names: the Dreemurrs, the Undyings, the Fonts -”

“The Fonts?” Chara asked. “Like the Fonts of Virtue?”

“The Fonts of Virtue?” It was Wing’s turn to ask.

Chara launched into a reluctant explanation, offering her incomplete knowledge.

Weeks later, Asriel and Chara planned a surprise for Asgore’s birthday.

“We should make butterscotch pie,” Chara said eagerly, swinging her legs and stifling a cough.

“I dunno,” Asriel said, lounging balanced on a chair tipped on two legs. “Mom always does that.”

“True, but I have been wanting to try it anyway,” Chara whined. “And it is his  _ favorite _ .” She nudged the bottom of one of the suspended legs, upsetting his balance.

“Fine,” Asriel said, flailing and catching himself.

They gathered the ingredients.

“What is this?” Chara asked, bending over the book and peering intently at the smudged ink. “Four butter - cups? Buttercups? That is strange.”

“Eh, not really. I’ve seen stranger,” Asriel said, walking through the door into the garden and pulling up a fistful of buttercups.

They cooked the pie, and it came out smelling a little different, but still good.

“The scent is unusual,” Chara commented.

“Oh, we forgot cinnamon,” Asriel said, smacking the heel of his palm against his forehead. “We can probably add some on top.”

Too eager to wait, they brought the pie out as soon as Asgore returned home from speaking to the merchants in Snowdin. 

“Oh, what is this, my children?” he asked.

“We made you a pie for your birthday, but we couldn’t wait,” Chara chattered.

“Try some,” Asriel insisted eagerly.

Asgore took the fork Asriel offered, cutting a large piece of pie out and holding it on the pad of his hand. He took a large bite, and a strange expression crossed his face. He swallowed with a large gulp, and took another bite, knitting his eyebrows together.

Suddenly, he clutched his stomach, spitting out the remaining pie and falling to one knee.

“Dad,” Chara and Asriel cried out in unison.

“What ingredients did you use?” Asgore asked, huffing.

“Just what the recipe said,” Asriel said. “Sugar, flour, buttercups.”

Asgore’s eyes widened. “My child, buttercups are poisonous.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Asriel cried pitifully. Asgore slumped to the floor, damp and feverish.

Toriel came out of Asgore’s room some time later.

“He is resting,” she said gravely. “He should recover in time. He is strong, and he only had a very little bit of the pie. Still, now you know the danger in those flowers.”

Asriel burst into tears. 

“Should recover?” Chara asked, a chill passing down her spine. When doctors said that, she had found that the patient would perish as often as not.

“It is uncertain,” Toriel said, dipping her head. “Have faith, my child.”

Asgore’s burning fever broke eight days later. Toriel came out of the room, where Chara and Asriel had been sitting in shifts, though she had tried to encourage them otherwise.

“He will be well,” she said, exhausted, and they rushed in to see him.

He lay in bed, propped up by pillows. “My children,” he said.

They ran to him, burying their faces in his chest. He enveloped them in a warm, fuzzy hug.

As time passed, a steady white-hot burning grew in Chara’s chest, and she found herself wracked sometimes with violent coughing fits. She also began to feel listless much of the time, and a red, emotional burning would prickle from time to time through her chest, setting her racing thoughts aflame. She tried to hide these symptoms, more out of an old habit, branded into her until it was almost more instinct, that it was dangerous to reveal weakness to others. But one day she could hide it no longer.

She walked with Wing through the marketplace. The clamor of it was loud in her ears: ringing chimes, monsters haggling and hawking their wares, the stamp of footsteps on stone. Every little sound grated on her ears, and she had to nearly pull her arms down to prevent herself from covering her ears. Her breathing was quick, and a sharp pain lanced across her chest, causing her to gasp, sharp and quick.

“Are you alright?” Wing’s voice asked distantly.

“I - I think I am dying,” Chara said, sinking to the ground and pulling on his arm as she fell.

“Your HOPE is fine,” he replied, his voice echoing strangely. “Chara, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. I need you to breathe with me.”

“I can’t - I , there is,” Chara’s thoughts were scattering.

Wing took her chin in his hand and firmly forced her to meet his gaze.

“In,” he said, and she took in a deep, shuddering breath. “Good. Out.”

He measured her breathing for her until she had calmed, then draped her arm over his shoulders. He was too tall for her, so he knelt, able to tell that she could not support her weight on her own.

“Let’s go to the lab,” he said, his frown evident in his voice. “We should find out what may have caused this episode.”

Chara nodded, weary and numb. As the feeling of teleportation rushed through her and then faded, it unsettled her insides, making her violently sick. Wing helped her to one of the beds they had.

At the lab, Wing studied her intently. “I am sorry I cannot perform more extensive physical tests,” he said. “My knowledge of human anatomy is almost nonexistent.”

Chara simply stared down between her legs, saying nothing.

Then Gaster cast his hand out, summoning her soul into view. He gasped, and Chara looked up.

Her soul was a dirty grey-red. It did not in any way look healthy.

Wing picked up a sheet of crystal, pursing his lips and reading the scrolling text on the screen. Chara then though he paled, if that was even possible.

“Your determination -” he started, then broke off. “It is low, and dropping.”

Chara felt cold dread lock over her features. She knew how integral determination was to souls - it was one of the things she had been most eager about studying.

“But why?” Wing was muttering, stalking back and forth. “What could have - oh.” His voice fell, and pushing a button on the screen, he called up his own soul, wiping a milky drip from his head as he did so. His soul fell opposite hers on a grayscale, tinged very lightly grey-red.

“The Soul-mating?” he muttered frantically. “But  _ why _ ?”

The king poured his resources into trying to find a cure for her. Chara grew more sickly, her mind wandering off to unknown places much of the time. When she was lucid, much of the time various magic experiments were being performed on her soul.

“Chara,” voices spoke through the haze, “Stay determined.” In the haze images drifted and shifted.

Running from streams of light from strange, grotesque skulls, striking a skeleton down with a blade.

A lower cackling, its face contorted, demonic, yet tears streaming from its eyes.

A familiar face that would not come into focus, bringing her untold anguish.

Wing was the most grieved, working tirelessly to save her, tiny fissures making the areas under his eyes dark. Her fate was unclear, and he blamed himself for it. This much she knew, though: the loss of her determination would not kill her. But she wondered, was it worth it to live the life she did now, with a failing body and mind?

Wing came to her in the night. “Chara,” he whispered, waking her from the light slumber that she had sunk into, unable to rest well due to her inability to properly draw breath.

“Yes, my dear?” she smiled into the dark.

“I may have found a solution to your problem,” he said, but Chara noted how his voice was pained.

“Wing,” she warned weakly.

“Do not forget about me,” he whispered. “Don’t forget.”

“Wing,” she cried, but he was gone.

Chara awoke with a little more strength and a deep sense of loss. Something tickled the back of her mind, something important. The memory seemed encased in putty, and the more forcefully she pushed against it, the more it hardened, until her head ached from the mental effort of trying to push through.

“Mom,” she called in a quavering voice. “Dad?”

The door burst open, and Toriel rushed in. She stopped, frozen in the doorway.

“Chara?” she whispered. “You are alright?”

“Yes,” Chara managed through an aching throat. Toriel rushed to her, burying her in a tight yet careful hug. Chara couldn’t help but wince, her body feeling like so much glass about to shatter and paper about to crumple. She must have tensed, because Toriel drew back, her hands around Chara’s upper arms.

“Asgore,” she called in a choked voice. “Come here. It is Chara.”

There was a clatter, and Asgore rushed into the room, terror like a storm on his face. As he moved around Toriel and saw Chara grinning weakly, he feel to his knees beside her.

“My child,” he gasped, taking her hand in both of his and bowing his head.

Though Chara felt somewhat better, her condition did not improve.

“I wonder why we do not have an expert in soul magic already helping her. I thought-,” she overheard Asgore say, piquing her memory. The wall remained there still, and she gritted her teeth, a tightening feeling growing in her temples, but to no avail. The longing grew.

Unable to hide from these feelings, Chara was struck with the realization that this was how monsters must always feel. Weakly, confined to bed most of the time, she summoned Asriel to her side.

“Asriel,” she croaked, her throat painfully dry. He handed her the glass of water on her bedside table, and she gratefully took a sip.

“W-” she started then paused, troubled. “Someone told me once,” she finally managed, “that a human and a monster soul together could pass through the barrier.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at her strangely, his gaze uncertain. “But that would mean someone had to die.”

“Yes,” Chara said, and his eyes flew to meet hers. “Me.”

“No,” Asriel said, jumping to his feet. “We almost just lost you! I can’t bear that again.” He shuddered, chest heaving. 

“Asriel,” Chara sighed. “I can do something good for monsterkind-”

“You already have,” Asriel interrupted.

Chara kept talking. “I can help. With both our souls, we will become so powerful that we can take down the heads of the church, conquer the humans, and save monsters.”

“No,” Asriel said.

“Asriel, please,” Chara pleaded. “I am in so much pain, all the time. I do not want to  _ live  _ like this.”

Tears streamed from Asriel’s eyes.

“Chara, I don’t like this plan,” he finally said.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

“I’d never doubt you,” he said.

“Please, then,” she said. “I need buttercups.”

Chara quickly sickened again. Asriel kept coming in, feeding her petals, revulsion and self-hatred stamped across his face as he did. Asgore and Toriel were heartbroken, tears falling freely from their eyes as they tended her.

Chara felt when the moment arrived. Asriel was by her side, as they had arranged. She felt herself slipping, falling from her body, her diminishing life force unable to maintain the connection between her body and soul.

“A-s,” she sighed, then felt her head drop.

Immense power surged through her. She raised her hands, seeing white fur and black pads on her palms and fingers. She laughed joyously, then knelt to pick up her body.

**Chara, what are you doing?** Asriel’s voice spoke in her head. 

_ I want to take my body back,  _ she shot back.  _ I want them to  _ know  _ that it was me that brought them down, irrefutably. And,  _ she continued, her voice softer,  _ though you will retain my soul, I intend to sleep. I want to be buried under the sky. _

Asriel nodded their head. Walking through the door, they spotted Toriel slumped over in the hall, fast asleep. Tenderness stole through their heart.

They crept to the barrier, and felt a rippling sensation spreading from their core as they passed through. With a triumphant cry, they broke into an easy sprint, the ground flying underneath them.

Soon they reached the village, where familiar golden flowers grew. Chara had forgotten the dandelions which spread across the vast fields. In her memory, the surface had been held captive in the winter she had fled. As she waded through the shimmering gold, little puffs of white clung to her fur.

Reaching the twenty-foot-high gate to the city, she ran and vaulted it. She landed inside and was met with the sound of screams.

MONSTER                    IT KILLED THAT HUMAN

OH MY LORD AND LADY                                  HEAVEN SAVE US KILL IT

          KILL IT  KILL IT         KILL IT        KILL IT KILL IT KILL IT       

_ Yes,  _ Chara seethed. It was time to take revenge.  _ Asriel, our magic. _

**Wait,** he hesitated.  **These aren’t the souls we were going to take.**

_ What does it matter? Kill them! It is kill or be killed! _

**No,** Asriel said, his voice booming with the thunderclap of an ultimatum.

_ Then I’ll do it,  _ Chara screamed in desperation, conjuring their soul.

**No,** Asriel said again, quietly this time. Chara tried to sweep a line of fire with her arm, but found she couldn’t move.

_ This was the plan! _

**No, the plan was to take the souls that deserved judgment!**

They both cried out as the pain of an arrow tip burned through their flesh.

_ We must fight! _

**No!**

A glacier rove across their front as a sword slashed out at them. They fell, one hand clutching the gaping wound in their chest.

THEY DON’T EVEN BLEED     MONSTER

KILL IT KILL IT       KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL

Tiny flecks of dust spiraled upward from their injuries. As it left them, they felt themselves becoming weaker.

_ So we die here,  _ Chara said in despair.

A surge of strength passed through them.

**Not here.** Staggering to his feet, Asriel launched a rainbow fireball at the gate, sending burning wood exploding in every direction. With an uneven gait, he started to run, still cradling Chara’s body in one arm.

Though gravely injured, they outdistanced the humans that pursued them. Finding the cave from which they had emerged, they made their way to the throne room, finally collapsing on the floor in a cloud of dust. 

Vague white figures swam in and out of focus, and sounds they vaguely recognized as being distressed met their ears.

**_Mom,_** they said, in perfect synchrony. **_Da - d._**

Their outstretched arm fell.


	6. “Somehow I lost my way.”

 

“Somehow I lost my way.”

“Recite the Fonts of Virtue,” her mother’s voice spoke, high and cold.

“Bravery, Patience, Perseverance, Kindness, Justice, and Sacrament,” Frisk said in her childish voice, fear boiling in her heart. Counting, a shard of ice struck across her brain, rending it. She had forgotten one.

“No,” her mother said coldly. “Again, or you shall be sent to bed without dinner.”

Bridget’s sing-song words swirled in her mind.

Justice, the mighty sword, will uphold the holy Word,

Integrity is fair you see; it will invoke verity.

Perseverance long holds on, slowly it restores anon.

Bravery, strength so sincere, it will reveal your fear.

Patience, your will so tried, extends your vision th-rough time

Kindness, so dear an art, they say will return your heart.

And Holy Sacrament, be you pure, will within the soul cure.

Then a conversation echoed in her mind.

“Mama,” Bridget’s son said, in Frisk’s memory. “Davey told me to stay away from the mountain. He said people who go there don’t come back.”

“He is right,” Bridget said, picking him up and settling him on her lap. Her expression grew distant. “I once believed differently, but I was proved wrong.” Her eyes focused, and she looked sternly at her son. “You must never go there. It is a place of death.”

“Ok, mama,” he said, and Bridget’s kind eyes crinkled as she smiled at him.

Frisk awoke with a gasp. Putting her hand to her cheek with a feathery touch, she found it warm and wet with tears. She covered a shuddering breath with her hand, barely able to breathe as they tears coursed thick down her cheeks.

The lacerations on her midriff threatened to burst and bleed again, and Frisk cried harder with fear. If she bled on her clothes or the bedsheets, maybe this time her mother would kill her. She had flown into a rage like Frisk had never seen, taking her riding crop to her daughter after Frisk had drunk from the Font of Integrity at Communion. Her mother’s eyes were daggers as she recited sin after sin - she doubted the church, she did not love her mother, and her birth - her birth was the greatest sin, being born out of an unholy, unmarried union. 

Summer sunlight streamed in through the open window, the scent of cut grass and dandelion breathed through the small room. Frisk felt weak, as if she had woken up from a long fever.

Staggering to her feet, she limped outside. There her mother brushed their horse with short, curt strokes.

“Mother,” Frisk presented herself, curtsying slightly and lowering her eyes as she had been taught, “I am awake now. How may I be of service to you?”

Her mother whipped around, her lip curling as she fixed Frisk with a burning stare. She stalked over, digging her fingernails into Frisk’s arm as she pulled it up over her head.

“ _ Mother _ ,” she mocked. “You are no daughter of mine. Leave, now.” She released Frisk’s arm, thrusting it back so Frisk stumbled and had to catch herself.

“Where shall I go, M-” Frisk stopped herself.

Her mother’s thin, arched eyebrows curved higher as her mouth lifted up on one side.

“Go to the mountain,” her mother said, “and do not return.”

Frisk stood frozen in shock, and her mother’s expression darkened, her eyes glittering with danger. She looked half-mad, and Frisk started backing away as her mother mounted her horse.

“Go,” her mother shrieked, kicking the horse’s sides and spurring it straight towards Frisk. Frisk turned, barely managing to climb the fence and fall painfully over the other side. Breaking into a run, she glanced back in time to see the horse vault the fence. 

A master horsewoman, her mother managed to just keep the horse from trampling her, while urging every last bit of speed from her pounding, bursting heart and her lungs that were twin suns. Her legs, slowly petrifying, managed yet to find bursts of energy from deeper and deeper inside. Had her panicked, adrenaline-filled mind had the capacity for anything but terror, she might have wondered why her mother still pursued her. Her mother had never liked ensuring that the deed was done; Frisk simply had to do it or face the consequences.

The sound of hoofbeats paced into a light trot, then a few steady clops, as the sunlight dimmed. Heaving for breath, Frisk stopped, putting her hands on her knees and looking around. She was in a cave.

“What do you see?” her mother called from the mouth of the cave. Frisk desperately searched for something to report. In front of her, she spotted a depression, and walked over to investigate.

There was the slightest of golden glimmers at the bottom. 

“There is a hole in the Earth,” Frisk replied weakly, her voice high and her vocal chords half-numb.

“Enter it,” her mother called back.

For the first time since she was a small child, Frisk hesitated.

“It would kill me,” she gasped through the stitch in her side.

“Then I shall kill you,” her mother replied, and Frisk heard the thump of her dismount.

Terror and despair lanced through Frisk, and she jumped.

Pain crashed through her like lightning, which was the only indication Frisk wasn’t dead. Her body - at least the normal configuration of limbs - was numb, the lancing lines of pain drawing a broken image of her, like a reflection caught in a shattered mirror. She was unable to think or feel anything but the raw screaming of her nerves - she herself could not even scream. Her vocal chords seized and closed when she tried.

After untold eternities, she felt a sense of determination steal into her. A voice in her whispered to her that this was not the end, that she could not give up. Frisk scowled, then winced, but pushed herself to her feet. She stood, swaying drunkenly as forest fires raged across and through her, then lurched forward, following the corridor to a large archway, beyond which she could hazily see a small, golden object.

As she crossed the room, the object came into focus. It was a golden flower, but strangely, it had a face. Frisk put a hand to her aching head. Perhaps she was dead after all, in hell, and this was one of the demons about which the church had warned. That would explain the hellfire coursing through her every artery, capillary, and vein.

“Howdy,” the flower spoke, and Frisk stopped, blinking hard. “I’m Flowey. Flowey the flower.”

Frisk could not speak, dumbfounded.

“Hmm, you’re new to the underground, aren’t’cha?” Frisk dimly thought that his speech patterns were strange, and could not help but fixate on it. “Golly, you must be so confused. Someone ought to teach you how things work around here! I guess little old me will have to do. Ready?” Frisk frantically shook her head, causing everything to spin and and earthquake to crack through her skull. Flowey ignored her. “Here we go!”

A glowing red object appeared in front of Frisk, causing her to stumble back and yelp. It followed her.

“See that heart?” Flowey said. “That is your soul, the very culmination of your being. Your soul starts off weak, but can become strong if you gain a lot of LV. What’s LV stand for? Why, LOVE, of course! You want some LOVE, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll share some with you!” He winked, sticking his tongue out.

“Down here, LOVE is shared through…” he paused, as if for effect. “Little white… friendliness pellets.” Frisk blinked hard again, and little flashing specks swam in and out of view.

She missed what he said next as she concentrated. They seemed to be coming towards her, and as they hit her soul, a deeper pain than the physical stabbed deep in her chest.

She fell to one knee, gasping, as a halo of the bullets surrounded her, for she figured that’s what they must be. Guns were a fairly recent invention, but living with a father in the clergy she had had the dubious benefit of seeing a rifle personally.

There was a cry, and as she forced her heavy head up to protests from her neck, Frisk saw a large white blur in front of her.

“Oh, what a nasty creature, torturing such a poor, innocent youth,” a gentle voice said. Frisk felt an immense tickling sensation run through her, as though she was being tapped by millions of faerie fingers. Her pain disappeared.

She straightened to see a large goat-demon in front of her.

“Is this hell?,” she asked.

“No, my child,” the demon said, looking confused. “This is the Underground.”

“But are you not a demon?” Frisk said, equally confused.

“I am a monster,” the goat-monster corrected, “though I understand humans have mislabeled us demons before. I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins. If you like, I shall lead you to my home, where you may rest and recover from your ordeal.”

Tears sprang to Frisk’s eyes. Toriel reminded her so much of Bridget. It was uncanny.

“Ah, do not cry,” Toriel exclaimed. “I am sorry. I can see you are a gentle soul. I should not have been so forward.”

“No, it is alright.” Frisk smiled, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. “I offer my thanks for healing, and opening your home to me. I will gladly and gratefully accept. It is just that you remind me of someone I was very fond of.”

Toriel smiled in return, but hers was tinged with sadness. “You are a well-spoken young child. It is funny - you remind me in turn of someone I was once very fond of.” She looked down, then shook her head, meeting Frisk’s eyes again. “Come, my child. I will lead you through the Catacombs.”

Frisk followed her, as she explained the various puzzles in the Ruins, and how fights would work in the Underground. She asked Frisk to cross a long corridor by herself, which Frisk thought a rather strange request of a sixteen-year-old. However, Frisk did as Toriel asked, just as she always had.

Finally, Toriel turned to her. “There is something I must do,” she said. She handed Frisk a small hinged box. Frisk stared at it blankly.

“That is a cell phone,” Toriel said. She showed Frisk how to open it and dial her number, her movements careful and precise as her large fingers brushed Frisk’s smaller ones. “It will allow us to speak while we are apart. May I ask your name, child?”

Her mother had made it very clear that whatever she might learn to the contrary, her true name was that which had been bestowed upon her by the church. “Aleia,” she spoke. She wanted to tell Toriel not to leave her, but she gulped and swallowed those words. She knew better.

“Stay put,” Toriel said. “The Ruins are dangerous. I shall come and fetch you when I am done.” She walked away.

As the minutes began to stretch, Frisk had time to think about all that had happened to her. How could a monster that reminded her of Bridget be evil? The longer she thought, the more convinced she became that Flowey had been an exception - and some sense scuttling on the back of her neck  _ had  _ told her that he was an anomaly - and that monsters were virtuous.

Then she remembered Bridget’s words in her dream. Bridget had once believed this mountain to be something other than a place of death, but something had happened to change her mind. She would be heartbroken, believing Frisk to have died. Frisk had to leave, and show her that she was alive and well. And though Frisk, too small and afraid, would not go against the church, perhaps Bridget and her son Ethan, embodying fully their respective patron saints of Integrity and Justice, could bring the truth to light.

Warring with her desire not to disobey, Frisk got her feet under her and walked into the next room. 

It was difficult to see as she followed the narrow, purple paths.

“ _ She has her mother’s eyes.” The pastor and her mother discussed her while she played. _

“ _ Distasteful child,” her mother scoffed, then hesitated. “Red is the holy color of Saint Chara, though. How is it that she should -nay, could - wear such eyes?” _

_ “Many forget,” the pastor intoned gravely, “Chara retook the color for his own. Red are the eyes of demons. _

_ “Frisk,” her mother barked sharply, noticing her daughter watching with eyes wide. “Conceal your shame.” _

She had forgotten in the haze following her awakening, but no longer, as she squinted out of a mixture of deeply entrenched habit and fear, even now, of her mother’s retribution. Perhaps it had been that lapse of memory that had driven her mother to drive  _ her  _ to the mountain.

A bright gold light nearly blinded her, even with her eyes half-closed. She had seen one before, at the stone steps leading into the Ruins. When she had reached out to it before, it had filled her with a sense of peace and wellbeing, so she did so again. She felt the same tugging feeling in her gut, suggesting that she could, in a sense, tether herself to the light incorporeally. She did so.

An indistinct blur hopped in front of her, and her soul appeared before her chest. Studying it, she suddenly realized she knew more about the Froggit - that was its species - than she should. Then there was a feeling of  a large object striking deep within her core, and she gasped, falling to one knee. As the blur drew nearer, it fashioned itself into a small, white animal, resembling the frogs she had studied in her anatomy lessons.

Frisk somehow sensed it was more intelligent than that; perhaps in the way that it pierced her with an intense stare, seeming to wait for her. Frisk decided to try to make polite conversation.

“You look very nice today,” she said.

The frog-like creature’s cheeks grew pink.

Something white streaked towards the red thing before her, and Frisk stepped to the side this time.

“I am very sorry, but I must leave. It was very nice to meet you, though,” Frisk said, and the Froggit inclined its head and jumped away. She shook her own head, unnerved, as she recalled Toriel’s earlier words. This must have been what she meant by monsters attempting to fight. At least she had accidentally done the right thing, though Toriel had not been able to intervene and save her.

Frisk encountered several more creatures. One she frightened away as she tried to comfort the small, crying bug - a Whimsun. Another she found rather rude as it danced in front of her, and yet another told her to pick on it, and she grudgingly obeyed. She found she knew the names of each creature, or rather, the species names, and if she studied it more closely, more information that she could not have known became apparent. It was as though she could sense a presence, almost asleep in the back of her mind, but kind and loving.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a blow struck at her core, shattering her like glass. It was like the pain she had experienced after her fall, but somehow much deeper, both cutting at her very sense of being and much closer to death.

“Aleia,” she heard a distant cry, almost as through the fog of memory. The voice was indistinct, so she couldn’t guess the age or the sex of the speaker. “You cannot give up now! Stay determined.”

Frisk felt a glowing feeling in the core of her core, and reaching in to it felt possibility. With a tremendous surge of willpower, she lurched forward, out of the black void that cocooned her, and stood once more in front of the flashing golden object.

She looked around as, once again, a Froggit drew near. Though Frisk was sure it could not be the same one, the chill of deja vu crawling up and down her spine was convincing her otherwise.

As she continued forward, she met the same monsters in the same succession, and grew more convinced that something very strange had just happened. If that had been a fight, and she had fallen into a void that beckoned her towards death, then surely she had died - yet here she was. And she had emerged at the point of golden light - she resolved to approach and connect to every iteration of the golden light that she could.

At last she came into a clearing where a barren tree grew on a carpet of bloodred. Drawing closer, the red resolved into leaves.

“Ah, my child, there you are,” Toriel called, hurrying over. “I am very sorry. My errand took longer than expected.” Coming nearer, she examined Frisk. “Oh, my poor dear, you are hurt.” 

The red object appeared in front of Frisk again, and insubstantial green light, like a sunbeam through spring leaves, flowed towards it. She felt as though she had taken a deep breath of cool air in after being in a stifled, hot room, and all her uncertainties seemed to settle and fade to the back of her mind.

“I had meant to present you with a surprise,” Toriel continued, and Frisk jerked her head up at that. She was uncertain whether to feel confusion or fear. Bridget had on occasion presented her with small gifts unexpectedly, but then, her mother’s idea of a surprise was often foisting a chore that had come up upon her.

“It is a butterscotch-cinnamon pie,” Toriel exclaimed, drawing Frisk back to the present, and an unfamiliar aching feeling stole across Frisk’s heart. It was almost like longing, but for what, she was not sure.

Frisk followed her inside, pausing first at the golden light twinkling merrily outside of the little house in the Ruins.

_ The sight of such a cute, tidy house in the ruins fills you with determination,  _ Frisk hears faintly at the back of her mind.

Toriel was waiting for her in the house, and Frisk cringed, feeling guilty for having kept her waiting. 

“I have another surprise for you,” Toriel said, beaming. Frisk dimly saw her hold her hand out for her to take. She did, and Toriel lead her to a door down the hallway.

“It is your very own room,” she said proudly. “I do hope you will enjoy it here.”

Frisk heard the sound of a quick, hard sniff, then Toriel said, “Oh no, I believe my pie is burning. Please, make yourself at home!” The sound of her quick footsteps receded down the hallway.

Frisk opened the door to find a small bedroom. Exhausted, she collapsed on the bed, and was soon asleep.

When she awoke, a piece of the pie waited on a plate on the floor. She took it, finding strangely enough that she could fit it easily in her pocket without it rubbing the lining of the skirt she was wearing or getting squished.

She remembered suddenly that she had to get back to the surface. Following the hallway down to a sitting room with a fireplace and bookshelves, she found Toriel sitting in a large armchair, wearing a pair of small glasses and reading a book.

“Mother -” she started, then gasped and swallowed hard.

Toriel looked up, and from the close distance, Frisk could see tears brimming in her eyes as she smiled.

“Yes, my child?” Toriel asked kindly.

“I would like to know how to exit the Underground,” Frisk said.

Toriel looked to the side, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.

“Here’s an interesting fact,” she said. “Did you know that snails have no backbone?”

“Mother,” Frisk pressed, through the lump in her throat.

“Or that snails -” Toriel fidgeted with her glasses as her eyes darted about, “do not wear shoes?”

“M- mother, please.”

“Stay here, child,” Toriel said sternly, getting up and setting her book on the chair. “There is something I must do.”

Frisk wanted so badly to listen to Toriel’s instructions, but she had a duty she was determined to fulfill. 

She followed Toriel down the wide set of stairs that led to a very long purple corridor. She stopped as Toriel’s voice echoed back.

“Every human that falls down here meets the same fate. I have seen it time and time again. Six humans in thirteen years. They come. They leave. And then they break like so much water against a rock. You naive child… if you leave, he - Asgore - will kill you and take your soul. I wish only to protect you. Please, turn back.”

Frisk followed her, turning down a bend. “Please, my child,” she said, then continued.

They stopped before a door.

“You feel so desperately that you must leave, then,” Toriel stated. “I will not let you, unless you can prove to me - prove to me that you are strong enough to survive on your own in the cruel Underground.”

The red glow that Frisk recognized as her soul began to glow. Flickering white fire appeared above Toriel’s hands, and Frisk let out a yelp as it struck her soul.

“Mother, stop, please, I must do this,” she cried, but Toriel refused to listen. Frisk continued to plead to no avail. As she felt her resolve start to fracture and pain quake through her soul, Frisk pulled a stick that had gotten snagged from her pocket and lashed out, hitting Toriel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she did, “but I am strong. You must let me go!”

Frisk noticed that the flames stopped hitting her, but still Toriel blocked her way. Finally, she slashed across her chest, and Toriel fell to the ground.

“I am sorry,” Toriel gasped, her breath rattling. “You are indeed strong. Go now, beyond this door. Eventually, you will come to the exit to the Underground. Please, you cannot let Asgore take your soul. His plan cannot succeed.”

Her labored words slowed. “Be … good, will you … not? My….. child…..”

She turned to dust, and her trembling soul followed.

Frisk fell to her knees, clutching her head. She had not meant to kill. Galaxies wheeled through her mind, and she thought she would go mad from grief and guilt.

A gentle tug reminded her of the golden light. Maybe if they could save her, they could also save Toriel from her. With a feeling of release, the world went dark, and she pulled herself back into that light.

She shook as Toriel showed her to her room again. This time, she laid down on the bed to think, and soon fell into an uneasy slumber. She put the pie into her now empty pockets, and tried to go down the stairs by herself. However, each time, Toriel would appear, and refusing to listen to her, guide her back up the stairs.

Finally, she went into the sitting room and talked to Toriel. This time, Toriel went to the door, and stood her ground, repeating the same things she had said before. The fire appeared in her hands.

“I will not fight you,” Frisk said, and flames shot towards her. She dodged, getting licked by a few of the white-burning tongues as they passed by her. A flicker of doubt passed through her mind as she watched Toriel closely, and found her mind’s voice say,  _ she knows best for you. _

“Attack or run away,” Toriel cried as Frisk continued to refuse to fight.

“I will not fight you,” Frisk cried in response.

“What are you proving this way? Fight me or leave!”

“I do not have to fight to be strong,” Frisk replied, dodging a large spectral hand that drew a line of flame in the air.

“Stop looking at me that way. Stop it. Go  _ away! _ ” Toriel’s voice rose into a desperate scream.

“I. Will. Not. FIGHT,” Frisk screamed in response.

The flames died away.

“Please, my child,” Toriel pleaded. “I know you want to return home, but we can have a happy life here. I will take good care of you. We -” she broke off in choked sob, and her tone became defeated. “Why are you making this so difficult? It is pathetic - I cannot save even a single child.”

“There are things I must do,” Frisk said. “There are people aboveground that believe me dead. I must return to them. I will not fail.”

Toriel hiccuped, then sighed. “I understand, my child. And I know that this would not have been a fulfilling life for you. This place is, after all, very small, and you have a soul that is very large, that has much to fill and be filled. Go now with my blessing. I only ask - please, do not return. It would be too difficult.”

“I understand,” Frisk said, then tensed as Toriel engulfed her in a very fluffy hug.

“Goodbye my child,” she said, turning, pausing one last time at the bend to look back, and then walking away.

Frisk walked through the door, only to find Flowey waiting for her. She cringed, but he did not attack. He simply grinned manically and started speaking. Frisk listened, as she had been conditioned to.

“Good job,” he said, raising his eyebrows spitefully. “You didn’t kill anyone this time. Bravo, oh, bravo! You forget, in this world, it’s kill or be killed. Someday you’ll meet someone you can’t win over. You’ll die, and die, and die again.” He cackled. “That’ll be fun, won’t it? And then what’ll you do? Kill out of frustration? Or give up and relinquish this world to me? I am the prince of this world’s future. Oh, I’m not planning regicide. This is so. Much.  _ Better. _ ” He disappeared into the ground.

Walking past him, Frisk opened the door, and it was as if all were white fire.


End file.
